


Do I Wanna Know?

by burglarhobbit (kazosah)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Death, Drama, F/M, Family Drama, Marriage, One-Sided Relationship, Unrequited Love, Way older woman, good leaders bad spouses, good parents bad spouses, marriage built on sorrow, reluctance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazosah/pseuds/burglarhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always in the last moment, when it's too late, when one realises all that they're losing, all that they're leaving behind. When one remembers all the wrongs they've done and will never be able right. When one realises they had perfection all along, that the feeling flows both ways, but they will never tell. All in that last regretful moment. She just wishes she could apologise to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

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She should have listened to him all those years ago when he prayed for her departure to the Undying Lands with their kin. Depart so that not only she, but he as well would rest comfortably until all was well, until all the darkness was vanquished in Arda, and they may finally know peace. For him and their son, she would wait there in contentment and safety, he pled endlessly. But she always refused.

And it would be her constant disregard for his pleas, for his concern of her that would ultimately best her. If only she had not taken him for granted, as simply one who kept up her appearance and status within the realm, as someone to aid in kinging rather than what he really was... Her partner, her husband, her love, and so, so much more... As was the case among last thoughts, it would not occur to her until it was too late. She would remember every moment - every glance, every word and the heedlessness, harshness and coldness she would respond with - as her final sights rested upon the image of her son, a perfect reflection of her husband, her love, her king, her one and only.

Tears slide from the corners of her eyes, but she isn't able to utter a single syllable, not even outward breath to pray for forgiveness.

.

Most recognized her as the Laiquendi Queen Laegrien of the Woodland Realm, wife to King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, though history makes no mention of her - and in truth, she would have preferred it that way. But before she became Captain of the Guard and Queen of the Woodelves she was simply known as Lailótiel, the Green Blossom of Lindon.

Lailótiel was born in the Year of the Trees to the first and last King of the Laiquendi - the green elves - Denethor son of Lenwe. Her mother had perished during birth leaving Denethor to care for her. He brought her up well in his beloved wife's memory, molding a fiercely loyal and lovely elf out of their daughter. Lailótiel wouldn't know the rush of combat, or the taste of Orcish blood until Morgoth loosed an army upon Beleriand, sparking the First Battle. And she would lose her father in that battle; lightly armed for hunting as green elves were, they didn't stand a chance against the weapons and raw fight of Morgoth's orcs. They were pushed back, back until they reached Amon Ereb where Denethor was slain and Elu Thingol had met them. The battle continued and death took many, staining the hill with blood.

With what elves still remained Laitótiel rallied them all to follow, abandoning their homeland to seek refuge someplace else. She politely denied the Queen title they tried to bestow her when she settled them all safely away from harm; after all, she could not govern her people when revenge and war called to her - like a small sick twisting curl in her stomach that would bloom into something all-consuming. A small collective vowed to follow her into battle, and she accepted her company. As a lone leader of a small regiment she offered her bow and her followers to Thingol's command.

The Laiquendi became reclusive and rarely took up arms and sought to aid in battle, pledging by their Lady's word to never again name a king or participate in the wars between the other Elves and Morgoth.

On her journey back to Doriath with her new King and comrades she stopped, along with her fellow green elves, and gave her father a proper burial, swearing an oath on his grave that she would protect the good from the darkness, that she would not rest in the West until the dark was forever annihilated.

It was through the battles leading up to the great battle, that would become known as the War of Wrath, that Lailótiel and her kin proved that not all Laiquendi would decline when called, that not all Laiquendi were faint of heart and might. She and her brethren and sistren rose through the ranks until Lailótiel was a commander in her own right, and stood on the frontline, fighting hard against their foe until Morgoth was finally expelled from Arda.

Though the northern part of Middle Earth suffered great destruction, they had reached a level of peace again. And in their peace, time to mourn. Through the long winded war that begun with the death of her father in the Year of the Trees and ended with the First Age, Lailótiel had found not only a way to sate revenge and fight the good fight against Morgoth, but she found friendship as well. And between bouts of war she found strong companionship with her King Elu Thingol and his half Maiar daughter, Luthien. In truth, she had been a slight conductor in the coming together of Berin and Luthien, though she felt an odd pang in her chest when their love was solidified in marriage, she felt happy nonetheless. And though Thingol's Maiar wife, Melian, shrouded Doriath in a secure protective Girdle to deliver them from harm, death still came to her friends. Luthien was lost with her father and husband, and no longer than two years after Luthien’s son Dior as well. Doriath was a graveyard of the chaos and madness that had destroyed it. It was a good thing for the land, and all its memories within it, to sink beneath the ocean with the rest of Beleriand.

Lailótiel had lost her father in the beginning, and some of her kin, but with time her loyal followers found attachment with other elves, and so came new elves of half green decent. Few elven realms remained as the Second Age began, and when the Valar pulled Numenor from the sea as a gift to men so came the tongue of Anadune, the Speech of the West, when the first ships sailed to Middle Earth nearer the sixth century of the Second Age. It was a peculiar language, and more often than not, she stuck to Sindarin.

The Green Elves and their Green Blossom who had once hailed from Beleriand - originally of Lindon – and most recently from Doriath, did not wander long until they were offered home in the Woodland Realm within the forest of Greenwood the Great. Her fellow elves chuckled, it seemed fitting, the Green Blossom now of the Greenwood. She smiled at the idea, and her smile grew even wider when she found the King of this realm was none other than an elf she'd fought alongside in battle, Oropher.

Oropher, now King Oropher of his wooded realm, lord to Sindar and Silvan elves, welcomed Lailótiel and her company, naming her Lady, War Consultant, and Captain of the Guard, and giving significant standing to her officers among his guards. He'd made this proclamation and explained her bravery and intelligence so none in his realm would question his decision that likely appeared quite random. It was far more attention than she wanted, but she accepted her new position as right hand to the king with gladness.

And for a blessed time they had not a care nor a worry, it was seemingly peaceful on Arda.

"An elf maiden of your beauty should not look so angry."

The old elf didn't startled, having heard her King's light steps the moment he'd crossed from grass to stone. She was stationed on one of the guard's outlooks on the bridge above the river, brow pinched, creating a wrinkle above her nose as her imprecisely coloured eyes that lingered between a soft green and light brown peered out toward the north.

"Apologies, your majesty. It is an old wound that irks and plagues my mind," she murmured, gaze still set in the direction of where her father and friends and could-have-been loves were slain; on a mass of land that no longer existed.

"Lailótiel," a soft, warm hand that had wielded less weapons, far less battle worn than hers landed on her armoured wrist and top of her hand, she glanced at the contact, then up to her king, who was smiling gently, "Laiquendi blossom of Lindon," his smile grew bolder and his hand drifted fully onto hers, clasping her fingers with his, "I know it is not my place to say, but you should rest while rest is possible. Be merry, and find and accept love, should love present itself to you."

The corner of her mouth quirked upward slightly as she curled her fingers around his lightly - but then his touch drew away, as did he gaze, looking to where her attention had formerly been set on the distant north, "My son is young," he began, and her stomach dropped, her former smile diminished as she folded her hands at the small of her back and focused her eyes on the river below them, "But he will be king one day when I cross the sea to join my beloved in the Undying Lands, and should he rise to the throne with you as his queen, well I," he paused and glanced at her again, but she did not raise her eyes to meet his, "I would be infinitely pleased."

It wasn't that Thranduil was inadequate, in any sense of the word, not in the slightest; it was just - Lailótiel's heart, again, sought another when they were not one to be sought after. Thranduil was a fine elf; tall, lithe and strong of body, altogether lovely in appearance, if not a slightly demure, soft spoken prince. It was he who Lailótiel took lessons from in the language of Westron. Quiet and beautiful as he was, he was just as kind and willing to offer his help.

> It was undoubted to anyone with sight that the young princeling held a spark for her. Just a spark, at first, when she and her company had arrived in the kingdom. He'd thought by some form of magic he blinked and suddenly arrived in Aman and was gazing upon one of the Valar, she radiated such poise and beauty, even when dressed fully in armour and strapped with an array of weapons. Hair as long and silvery as his own, but carefully and expertly arranged so that it would not hinder her vision or movement, battle ready, but still elegant in the way wisps broke free from her temples and delicately framed her face. Such a display somehow brought even more emphasis to her brilliantly peculiar coloured eyes, frequent change in colour that seemed a common trait her kinsmen shared with her, a pure Laiquendi quality. Such beautiful creatures led by a goddess. But then by the tales orated by his father of her victories, cleverness and skill, and her shy demeanor upon being recognized and held in such a high regard, that spark swiftly illuminated into a great flame.
> 
> She approached him rarely and addressed him respectfully in passing, but then she came to him, beseeching his aid in learning the language of man, as the style of speech was sweeping across Middle Earth and she thought it well to be knowledgeable and adapt.
> 
> His eyes akin to diamonds sparkled with delight and his heart thudded even harder in his chest than when he saw her drawing near and placing a low bow of reverence and loyalty. Though still an elf, he did not bumble, nor did he find himself flushing and flustered. He graciously agreed, though there was no way he could have refused to begin with.
> 
> Lessons were scheduled on nearly a daily basis. Basic words to start, then common phrases, until he was confident enough for her to initiate a full conversation in Westron. He relished every moment spent watching her lips form the new sounds to create words so foreign to her. His pulse would flutter when she'd grow irritated and lapse into quick speaking lisp of Sindarin, sometimes even Quenya if she was truly exhausted and annoyed. He would grin and chuckle light heartedly at her distress and lay a hand atop hers in a reassuring gesture, telling her - in Sindarin, of course - that they would try again another time; all the while he would fight against the constant urge to slide his fingers to twine with hers and lean forward to kiss the lips that captivated him so.

He held a torch for her, but she found she could not reciprocate the feeling. She felt horrid in not telling him so, though. She would smile and she would laugh and accept his company when offered, he was a lovely being, after all, and she could not deny him, but she could not tell him there was likely no hope of something more between them.

"I am not sure I am quite ready to be that settled, your maj-" she halted her final word when from the corner of her vision she saw him snap a sharp significant look her way, "Oropher," she corrected with a breath of a laugh.

He grinned, not at all deterred by her careful decline of his proposal for his son, "In your own time," he rested his hand on her shoulder, and she felt the warmth of his touch even through the layer of armour and cloth - she tried her damnedest not to let the warmth spread through her limbs and take home in her heart, but it was always an effort in vain. "Though I mean it," Oropher continued, giving her shoulder a soft pat, "when I say you must rest, my lady. You have been stationed all day, have you not? And now the moon is high and the stars shine bright."

"The stars give me peace and happiness, even in times of woe and war," she tilted her head skyward, "I like to believe in the endless sky is where my loved ones are, the ones that did not make it to Aman, they became stars and watch over me, over all of us. Keeping us company, guiding us. The twinkle of a star is their memory, and should the star keep shining, my lost ones shall still linger."

 .

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	2. Chapter 2

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Elves are born with a healing touch, but only few with well practised hands can summon great enough power to guide the severely injured away from Death's beckoning embrace. It was an art of the ancient ones, a skill that was taught and passed on only to those who could properly wield the power. Lailótiel, as an ancient one, was rarely practised in the skill of healing; she was far more focused on preemptive battle strategies, protective measures for the kingdom and training up her guardsmen. But the day a vast majority of the Woodland Realm's army returned from aiding those in the North against Sauron's rising and a rather foul serpent taking part in renewed war, she had to quell her anxiety and call forth her inner healer when woken by the sounds of a certain prince's pained wailing.

Distressed and anguished calls echoed through the cavernous kingdom, just by the sound alone she knew it had been the wrong arrangement to leave her to keep watch over the realm while Oropher and Thranduil led a sizable amount of their army to provide help. Many injured were received, but it was the prince's cries she ran to answer.

His sobs had quieted enough for her to hear the sounds of healers ordering to fetch that, move this, apply pressure there, mix these, as she approached the source of chaos in the healing rooms. Many lay in beds being tended to in a calmly manner, but the prince was restrained by three elves, his armor half way removed, leaving his legs still clad in leathers and metal, and his right shoulder still strapped with a heavy plate. It wasn't the prince's state of undress that would catch a passerby's eye, no - it was the white cloths lining the left side of his body - from the middle of his ribs all the way to the top of his forehead - covering what was no doubt a gory display given how quickly they were staining crimson.

Lailótiel's presence was known only when she breathed out an old, foul elvish curse; all eyes swept to her and most returned back to the prince, whose strength to thrash was waning.

"My lady!" a young elf maid approached her, hands poised in a shooing gesture, certainly the verbal phrase to accompany the motion about to slip from her mouth, "This is not -"

"Is it not?" Lai shot back sharply and pushed past the young she-elf, "What has happened?" she demanded once beside the head healer.

"A dragon's wrath, my lady," he answered with a sullen tone.

"And its ruin," she affirmed mournfully. She reached a hand over and with care lifted the cloth that lay over his shoulder, it revealed exposed bone and decimated muscle and tissue, she winced but didn't replace the cover. The prince whimpered, his right eye working in vain to peer past the bridge of his nose and the bandages that hid the left side of his face likely in a similar state as what she had revealed. She swept around the bed to his uninjured side and met his bright despairing gaze.

He swerved his gaze away, turning his neck and head to spare her the sight of him, and to spare himself the shame, but he couldn't go far before he let out another shout of pain. His eye, when it finally opened after being squeezed shut tightly against the torture of his raw wounds, held suffering that was not only for his injuries, "Do- do n-n-not look," he stuttered through his stabbing throes.

"Do not be absurd, you foolish prince. I told you not to step directly into Ancalagon's sight, for that only means letting death look upon you and take you," she whispered, ghosting her fingers against the hair by his temple. His eyes fluttered closed at her touch, and to her horror remained closed as his body fell limp, boneless, beginning to lose the will to live against the smothering pain.

"Take the prince to his bed chambers, now!" she barked to the elves who had ceased in holding him down. They didn't waste a single moment, taking up Thranduil with care, they transported him quickly through the vast stairways and halls. "Bring the herbs and concoctions you have made then leave us. I cannot risk our prince's life in the hands of mere children," Lai ordered with a hostile, arrogant edge to her voice that matched the glaring bitter look in her eyes; those that remained nodded in understanding (taking as little offense as possible) and collected what they had prepared and rushed off to the prince's room.

"But my lady -," the head leader protested softly.

She turned at the archway of the healing rooms, the long silvery veil of her hair flaring and settling around her as she leveled him with a glare so fiery it was comparable to a dragon's breath, "This will require skill in the healing magic of old, far beyond all your collective years of practice combined. Give me your service by giving me your absence." She made haste to the prince's chambers and found him on the left most side of his bed, his wounds uncovered, and the prepared medicines and herbs arranged on the bedside table.

Though she meant well and should have given them a proper breath of thanks, she could only manage a shout for them to leave, demanding that two remain stationed close by should she need a runner.

"Rest," she murmured to Thranduil upon seeing his unscathed eye working frantically behind the lid, struggling to open, "I shall take care of you."

.

"Do tears from an ancient being contain healing abilities?"

Laitótiel was roused by the roughened voice of her prince, she raised her head from its dipped position toward her chest. Blinking away exhaustion, she smiled softly upon seeing Thranduil alive and awake. She leaned forward in the tall backed cushioned armchair, "Rest assured that I did not cry until after I treated your wounds. Time was of the essence and tears would have made the process far more difficult."

He smiled, a soft curve of one side of his mouth, the other side hidden beneath carefully placed bandages. She didn't let her gaze linger to the bandaged half of his face, or neck, shoulder, arm, and side. She remained with his right eye and eased ever closer in her chair before mopping away the moisture that had apparently escaped her eyes while she fell into a meditative state. "And count yourself lucky, prince, that I still retain my knowledge of magic healing," she figured telling him the extent of her skill and his wounds would be best to explain now rather than putting it off for later. She swallowed heavily against the tightness in her throat, and blinked away the stinging of tears in her eyes, again. She hadn't cried since Belegriand had disappeared into the sea.

"The damage, I am afraid, is permanent... The medicinal herbs and time will heal enough, but not enough so that you shall look as you did before. I will provide you with a masque, it will take time for you to control it...” her voice ebbed with emotion. “I will - I will teach you, and after a while it will become second nature, like breathing," her words tumbled from her in a rushed breath. She gasped, trying to contain herself, feeling so ridiculous for behaving in such a manner. He was alive, there was no longer reason to worry, to be upset. But-

"I told you, I told him, not to near the damned worm. I -," she puffed out an irritated sigh and roughly pushed away the tears that fell down her cheeks, her emotions were betraying her. She sniffled once, and calmed herself enough to notice his fingers twitching above the bed linens, seeking out her hand. She could not deny him, she slid her cool fingers to settle in his heated palm, then adjusted them to lace with his. She stared at his hand, their hands joined together, mentally shaking her head - at this mere boy with an infatuation, at her own infatuation, and this damned situation they were in - not only in relation to irreparable injury, but the darkness that refused to remain defeated. The darkness that hurt her loved ones, the ones she adamantly sought to protect. But she'd failed... again, "I would have thrown myself before that dragon's flaming pant if only to spare you this misery."

Thranduil squeezed her hand to draw her attention away from the dark thoughts that plainly displayed themselves across her face. Her eyes dragged away from their unseeing gaze at the pure white bed linens to Thranduil's crystal coloured eye, "Should your tears truly prove to hold curative qualities weep for me, but should they not..."

She turned her head away, closing her eyes briefly to let the last of her tears fall freely before collecting herself.

"I am contented that should I have succumbed to my wounds my final sight would have been the fairest of all faces in Arda,” Thranduil murmured.

She smiled tightly, and let out a quiet laugh, to which his mouth curved a little more. "I will see that wretched monster dead, know this," she promised gravely after a time of silence.

His hand held fast, keeping her tethered to him in fear she meant to leave that very instant, "Assure me with your presence," he pled softly, "Do not depart for battle. Stay with me, please."

The begging tone in his voice, in his visible features. The very state of him, she hadn’t the heart to deny him… just then…

.

A moment of hope for Thranduil, and Oropher as well, when both he and Lailótiel returned from the north three weeks later. The first week of which Lai had spent as the primary healer to Thranduil’s wounds. The healers told tale to the King, of her remaining steadfast by his son’s bedside until she deemed him well enough that she may join her king on the battlefront. And upon arrival in the kingdom, still suited in armor, with the evidence of battle spattered and caked in her hair and on her skin, reasserted herself as sole caregiver once more.

Oropher looked on at the scene. The tender touches she bestowed upon his son, his son’s eyes staring so adoringly. Perhaps this was a solidifying moment, perhaps she would discover and understand her love for Thranduil went farther than that of a loyal guardsman to her royals, her adamant protection over them and those they ruled within their realm. Lailótiel had hoped for the same, perhaps she could grow to love Thranduil far more than she had loved others before, perhaps she could be loved and love in return. Well, she thought so until she saw Oropher free of armour but still slightly battered from war, standing at the doorway, staring fondly at her, and her heart thundered with fear and joy… Perhaps not…

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna take a while...  
> this actually SHOULDN'T take a while. But it's like. The last moon of Autumn needs to shine on the keyhole of the hidden door that leads to the inspiration kingdom in my brain for me to actually WRITE STUFF.  
> I reALLY want to write this! But I'm like... HOW TO WORDS?! WORDS why elude?!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not finished, but I just really wanted to get it out there. I'm really pleased with myself with this angst-ridden thing but I just need this push to get to me to complete it, I think. My Tolkien knowledge isn't all that up to par, but I'm hoping there aren't any too obvious mistakes... though I think I did fudge something... Maybe not in this chapter. Anyway! This is gonna be a saaaaaad sad journey, clearly, since we started with death, and the death just keeps on coming. And it's going to be sort of fast paced - or at least I give the excuse of fast paced in the place of horrible writing, woo!
> 
> The title is taken from the Arctic Monkeys song Do I Wanna Know? Which is a LARGE inspiration for this story, as well as Woodkid's song I Love You.


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